a street map to liberty city
by the hikikomori life
Summary: Yuuko's an ass-kicking, name-taking mob boss with a vested interest in keeping the orphaned nobody, Watanuki Kimihiro, alive. To that end, she's hired a certain Doumeki Shizuka to be his bodyguard. Organized crime AU. Currently incomplete.
1. Chapter 1

This is your job.

You drive the car. Sometimes you run errands. Buy the groceries at the convenience store, carry them back to the safe house. Paper bags of oranges and instant ramen. Two cartons of milk and a dozen eggs. (Organic, or Watanuki will pitch a fit.) Sometimes you follow him, and stand around holding a gun under your arm. Making sure to look capable of murder.

But mostly, you just drive the car.

Today's no different. You're in front of the wheel, Watanuki strapped into the passenger's side, looking sour. He always looks like he's sucking on a lemon when you're with him.

He says, "Park in that alleyway," so you do. He says, "Let me do the talking. If you say anything, you're likely to get us both killed." (You think this is slightly unfair, but decide not to argue.)

The apartment block looms above you both, a mile of rotting brick and grey-green concrete. You look in the trunk of the car, and decide to go with the sub-machine gun today.

Upstairs, you let Watanuki do all the talking. He sits at a square folding card-table, across from the largest man you have ever seen squashed into a tailored suit. Jabba in a tux. Two beady black beetle-eyes embedded in a doughy face. He smiles, revealing rows of putrid teeth delicately clutching the end of a fat cigar. There's a single light bulb suspended from the ceiling.

They sit there at the table together, and the man laughs. Watanuki laughs. Neither of them is really amused. Then Watanuki gets up. He does it slowly, with no sudden movements. Gun-toting lackeys watch from the shadows. He turns towards the door, towards you, and you catch a glimpse of his face, taut with fear, and pale. You follow him down the corridor on the way out. Shielding him with your body. You think about limp, fried tofu and Chinese take-out instead of the possibility that any moment now the space between your shoulder-blades could be filled with lead.

And then, mercifully, you're back out in the sun, on the sidewalk. Passers-by glance nervously at the bulge in your jacket, and keep walking. You're still trailing Watanuki, so you're perfectly positioned to catch him by the arm when he stumbles off the curb, his knees giving way, crumpling like a sack of potatoes. You pull him back to his feet.

"You alright?" you ask, gruffly, hefting the sub-machine gun up under your free arm. He scowls and shakes you off, then turns to lean against the car, discreetly steadying himself. There's hardly any colour in his cheeks. He looks like a corpse.

"I'm _fine_. Don't touch me."

You glance at him, and shrug a shoulder, as if to say _Whatever you like_. You get into the driver's side and start the engine with a vicious twist of the key. The car idles while Watanuki remains outside, waiting for his head to stop spinning, for his breathing to become even. You put both hands on top of the steering wheel and stare straight ahead, saying nothing. It's not as if anything you can say will ever convince him that you care.

* * *

You meet for the first time at Yuuko's, an up-market penthouse in the heart of Algonquin. You go to her because it was the only clue that your grandfather left you, and, well, the last he ever would. But first you find out what you can, though, from your network of contacts so industriously assembled over the years. It turns out that the Watanuki family owned a restaurant down in Broker; at some point, apparently through no fault of their own, they fell into debt to one Ichihara Yuuko - who is not, as they say, an unkind woman, but one who never fails to collect on a debt. Because of this, their son, the young Watanuki Kimihiro, cut a deal to work off the debt at Yuuko's "office" downtown - which, while dubious-sounding, was still better than admitting you'd become an errand boy for a mob boss.

No doubt he'd had plans to return to the family business when the deal was done. Settle down; spend the rest of his life cooking takeout for hungry college students, or scraping grease off the stove. Now, though - now the word on the streets is that even though he worked off his debt a long time ago, he's got nowhere else to go. They say that Yuuko's taken him in, even. And nobody on the streets who knows _anything _messes with someone under Ichihara Yuuko's protection.

It's all very sad, of course, but none of this tells you what you most need to know. Doesn't mean it won't come in handy, of course. Someday. For now you keep this information in the back of your mind, and nod along unsmilingly as Yuuko outlines your duties in a crisp, business-like manner. It actually does look like an office, what with the expensive furniture, the high-backed CEO's chair. There's a broad, solid-looking picture window behind her seat which provides a nice view of the city and Algonquin Bridge. Probably bullet-proof glass; you can't imagine someone like Yuuko leaving that up to chance.

Watanuki waits until she's not looking before swiftly stepping on your foot, like a cobra.

(If cobras _had_ feet.)

(...with which they could step on people. Alright, maybe not the best metaphor. But then again, you're not getting hired for your literary prowess.)

Another thing you've noticed is that the second Watanuki set eyes on you, sparks flew. The bad kind of sparks, though, like when a cop gets lucky and hits one of your tires so it's nothing but a helplessly flailing scrap of rubber, but you still have to drive the fuck away, and you end up dragging the metal rim on asphalt for fifty yards before your getaway car finally gives up the ghost. That's fine, though - you appreciate the occasional healthy challenge. It keeps you on your toes.

Watanuki steps on your foot again, and makes a face when you glance at him. (This one's got maturity by the bucketload, you can just tell.) Yuuko, perhaps sparing a thought for whatever is left of Watanuki's dignity, pretends not to notice.

"...and so," she says, and you straighten up. "I'll need you to look out for Watanuki. Make sure he doesn't get into trouble. You know, watch his back."

She pulls a handgun out of a drawer, places it on the polished lacquer desk, and slides it across to you. Her fingernails are long and red, immaculately painted; they click on the table's surface, spider-like, and you can't help but follow their movements with your eyes. (You wonder, idly, how many people she's had killed.)

You palm the gun comfortably, giving it a quick once-over, before pointing it towards the ground as a matter of courtesy.

"Very good." She smiles, and touches one of those long nails to her chin, coyly. "You're not afraid of getting hurt, are you? Doumeki?"

"No," you reply, calmly.

"I don't -" Watanuki's eyes bulge dangerously; he looks like he's having an embolism. "I don't need protection!"

You both ignore him, which sends him sputtering into apoplectic fits of rage. (You find this oddly satisfying, and make a mental note to keep doing it.)

"You're starting small," continues Yuuko, calmly, "so this is all you'll get from me for now. But, you know, feel free to work your way up. I pay well," she adds, without a trace of irony. As if you're doing this for the pay. You both know better, but that doesn't mean you'll turn down a steady income. Even _you _have to eat, after all.

"I'll do that," you say, agreeably, and that's when Watanuki turns round and kicks you in the shin.

* * *

How you came under one Ichihara Yuuko's employ is an entirely different matter. It takes you many months to track her down; she has dozens of fronts around the city, both legit and otherwise, but if you're looking for the woman herself, she's nowhere to be found. Finally you just waltz into that little sushi bar on Galveston near closing time and announce to the guy at the counter: "I'm looking to work for Ichihara."

When you wake up you find yourself strapped to a table in a dingy, dimly-lit room, staring down the slightly-bent business end of a crowbar. A _blood-stained_ crowbar, you note, going a little cross-eyed. How very quaint.

"WHO SENT YOU!" roars the ape holding the crowbar, in a tone of voice which has no suggestion of actually being a question. Your head throbs. It feels like there's something wet on the side of your head, near your right temple, which might very well be blood. You try to say something, but all that comes out is a raw little croak. The crowbar rises ominously, out of your line of sight, and you cringe, and brace yourself for the inevitable blow -

But it never arrives, and then you hear - in quick succession - a bovine grunt of pain, a thump, and the clatter of metal skidding across the basement floor.

"Shut up," says a calm female voice. "The kids are watching cartoons."

At this point your savior saunters into view. You can't make out her face too well at this angle, but she has long black hair, and you can see she has a red metal baseball bat resting casually on her shoulder, the way a soldier might hoist his rifle.

"So, I hear you want to work for me," she drawls. Mostly all you can see of her is that she's wearing jeans - you didn't know denim could be that fitting - and she has legs up to _here_.

"Eyes up here, kiddo," she adds, and taps the underside of your chin with the end of the bat. The metal is cold, and the tapping makes your teeth click together uncomfortably. With some effort you pull your eyes up, up, upside-down, and try to make out Yuuko's face in the shadows. You croak, cough, croak again, and after some time finally find your voice, hoarse as it is.

"I was looking for you. I'm willing to do any work, as long as it pays."

"Is that so?"

Yuuko chuckles, and strolls around to the far side of the table, near your legs. Neck straining, you lift your head at an angle off the table to track her movement. She stops by your feet, and lifts the bat again with a toothy smile.

"Isn't that funny. And here I thought you were looking for someone named Watanuki Kimihiro."

_Shit._ Your blood runs ice cold. Yuuko's tone is nonchalant, almost playful, but her eyes bore straight into yours. She's got you by the balls, and you both know it. "Wouldn't it be more accurate to say that?"

Alright, think fast. But try as you might, you're just not fast enough. You feel blood oozing from your temple; hear the gears whirring in your own mind, painfully slow. Yuuko seems to hear them too, and smiles wider, shark-like.

"I just-" you start, and cough, sounding perfectly unconvincing, even to yourself, "- I just want to know what he had to do with -"

"He had _nothing_ to do with it." She says this so emphatically that you decide to just shut the hell up before she rips you a new one. "But you're a clever boy, you must already know that." She keeps moving, pacing around the table, all the while swinging the bat, shifting it from shoulder to shoulder, never letting you forget that it's there. "So what is it that you really want from him?"

Choose your words carefully. (And try not to sound too pathetic.)

"I want to find out... who did it. And _why_." It's hard to explain, but you feel a sort of kinship with Watanuki, even though you've never met him. The other survivor. You believe, with some conviction, that one day whoever did it will come back to finish the job. When he does, you want to be ready, and to do that... "If I can be near him, then maybe-"

"Enough."

You later learn that Yuuko has a highly-developed bullshit-detector gland, which is just one of the talents which helped her get to where she is today. So it's a very good thing that you're not bullshitting her at that moment, or you'd probably find yourself getting cozy with that bat, and the police would never find your body. In the end, the fact that she puts you in charge of Watanuki's protection probably has some sort of deep, nested irony in it. But it's a job like any other, and you intend to do it well.

* * *

Your first assignment is to drive Watanuki home. In retrospect, you should have taken it as a herald of things to come; for now you just wonder why Watanuki has a car if he doesn't know how to drive.

"I _do_ know how to drive, idiot," snaps Watanuki irritably, arms crossed over his chest, leaning his forehead against the passenger's-side window. You're not an expert in body language or anything, but just judging by the way he's crushed himself up against the door it seems he wants to put as much space between the two of you as is humanly possible without just getting out of the car. You wait a while, but Watanuki doesn't elaborate, and there's no point in asking about it unless you're in the mood for more vitriol, and you aren't, so you don't.

But on that note, your second, third, and fourth jobs are pretty much the same, with only the destinations to switch it up a bit. Not that you mind being a glorified chauffeur, because the pay's good, and you get the rest of the time off. By the sixth or seventh time you don't bat an eye as Watanuki gets into the passenger's side, slams the door and snaps at you to pick him him up at five sharp. The rest of the ride is spent in silence; Watanuki picks at the fraying threads on the seat of his chair, and glares moodily out the window. You drop him off on the corner of Montauk and Dillon, and drive off before he hurls any more abuse your way.

You drive around for a few hours, aimless, burning gas because the money for it doesn't come out of your pocket. You buy a hotdog; eat every last inch of the greasy, mustard-smothered sausage and then sit in Meadows Park, feeding pigeons with what's left of the bun. At four fifty-five you're parked across the street from where you dropped him off, hand draped casually out the window, trying to look like you have a good reason to be there whenever a cop drives by. After a good twenty minutes Watanuki finally appears, head down, hands in his pockets. Conscientious as ever, he looks both ways before crossing the street, and you start up the engine, ready to leave.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you notice the shiftless kid stalking Watanuki, his hood pulled down over his face and something bulky inside his jacket. He's not bad at what he's doing - for one, Watanuki clearly hasn't noticed a thing - but to a third party situated at a distance, he's painfully conspicuous. Well, can't have that happening. It's in your contract, anyway - a minor clause; something about keeping Watanuki alive.

Of course, Watanuki just shoots you a cold glare as you get out of the car, opening his mouth, no doubt to say something nasty and cutting which you're really not in the mood to listen to right now. So that's when you casually sidestep him, grab the kid by the throat, spin him around and slam him face-down on the hood of the car.

"W- what are you doing?" blurts out Watanuki, from behind you, sounding panicked. You ignore him, twisting the little shit's arm behind his back until he yells, and drops the gun into your open palm. Then you lean down, driving your elbow into the kid's spine with your weight, and inform him calmly,

"I'm about to let you go. In ten seconds, if I can still see you, I will shoot you."

Then you let him up. He stands there for a moment, dazed, but then you cock the pistol; the sound seems to wake him up and he makes a run for it. You wait until he stumbles and disappears around the corner of the apartment block across the street before turning to Watanuki.

"Get in the car," you say, gruffly. And for once, he doesn't argue.

* * *

In a roundabout fashion, that's how you find yourself standing in Watanuki's apartment, just kind of hovering around in his living room: the embodiment of awkward. As it turns out, even someone like Watanuki can occasionally experience something bordering on gratitude, because you can't think of anything else that would compel him to invite you up to his place for food.

"If you touch anything," Watanuki reminds you, yelling from the kitchen, "I will hurt you."

Privately, you think this is unlikely, as Watanuki seems to have the muscle tone of wet tofu, but voicing this thought would surely neutralize this unexpected spate of good fortune, so you wisely keep your mouth shut. Instead you look around, inspecting the domicile of the mystery that is Watanuki Kimihiro. It's clean and neat, obsessively so; you're not a particularly messy person, but your place looks like a veritable pigsty compared to this haven of organized storage and consistent house-keeping. Everything is in its place, even down to the embroidered cushions on the sofa, which are positioned at perfectly regular intervals and incidentally do not look like they have ever been sat on. (You add this to your mental file of information about Watanuki, another interesting fact for posterity. "Lives in a house which does not seem lived in.")

Eventually you find your eye drawn to a door at the back of the hall, slightly ajar. You should really know better than to have a look inside, but you can't seem to stop yourself from taking a peek. It looks almost the same as the living room, compulsively tidy, all right-angles and dust-free surfaces. You stop just short of stepping inside - you might be being slightly rude at the moment, but you're not retarded enough to chance the full brunt of Watanuki's wrath. But then you notice a yellowing scrap of paper lying unassumingly on top of his dresser, by the door. Headline: Gang violence in Bohan causes five deaths, countless injuries.

Something tightens in your throat. You know this article. Pick it up, hold it in your hand, turn it over. You have one too, at home; maybe a little less wrinkled than this, definitely a little less... tear-stained. Turn it over again. Highlighted in the wall of text, the name Doumeki, sticking out like a sore thumb. You should've realized Watanuki would know something, too, but... Would've, should've... At least it would explain a lot-

Look up to find Watanuki staring at you across the room, face white. In a few quick strides he crosses the space separating the two of you, and reaches out, snatching the article from your hand with a snap of his wrist.

"You-" Color rapidly fills his bloodless cheeks, staining them an ugly mauve. "You were looking at my things! My private things!"

"No," you offer, in the hopes that this will make a difference.

It doesn't. He stares at you incredulously, mouth opening, jaw working, words having completely deserted him. Finally he thrusts a bag into your hands, keeping the article away from you, out of your sight, and then jerks his head curtly towards the door. _Get out_.

Afterwards, standing alone by the bus-stop with the bag dangling from your hand, you think to yourself: at least he has a reason to hate you now. (You eat Watanuki's home-cooked meal by yourself in the lobby of your apartment, and find to your surprise that it isn't half bad.)


	2. Chapter 2

Things are a little awkward after that. Or maybe a lot. And maybe not 'awkward' exactly, but you're not sure what the right word is. In the end you just wish that Watanuki wouldn't make your job so damn _hard_.

"I'm in charge of your protection," you bite out. You're not really a guy who gets angry, but right now you think you're as angry as you've ever been. He's started doing his own driving, removing you from the equation entirely. Not the wisest of moves, as sans his gun-toting bodyguard, Watanuki doesn't exactly cut the most imposing of figures, even if he's better at talking than you are. Words don't stop bullets. There's a stain on his jaw, a flowering bruise just below where his lip was split by some brute's ham-like fist. And he's lucky that's all he got. It could be worse, so much worse.

"I don't need any," he shoots back. You want to yell _I think your face says something different_ but you don't.

Instead, you say, though it makes you feel slightly like a tattle-tale brat, "I'm going to Yuuko."

You're not particularly surprised when he hits you, and it doesn't even hurt that much. (Not _physically_, anyway.) He draws his hand back slowly, rubbing his knuckles while trying to look like he didn't just break his hand on your jaw. A stare-down.

He's the first to look away. (He always is.)

You repeat yourself, for good measure. "I'm going to Yuuko," you say. "If you keep this up. I'm not going to let her beat me to a bloody pulp because your ego can't handle having me around."

He's so angry that you think he might explode. He doesn't hit you again, though; at least he's got sense enough to learn from his mistakes. _Well, sometimes_, you think, bitterly, your eyes on his bruised jaw. He notices you staring, and his hand flies up, covering it self-consciously, but you don't need to see the sneer on his face to know that it's there.

"... Look," you say, after taking a moment to school your voice back to some semblance of its usual calm. "You don't want me around? You hate my fucking guts and wish I was dead? Fine. Just let me do my damn job. I'll leave you alone otherwise."

He turns away from you. You can see his shoulders are shaking, ever so slightly. "Starting now?"

As your answer you grab your gun - when did you get so used to having it? - from the table, turn on your heel, and walk out. You do wait at the end of the hallway until you hear him close and lock the door, though. No sense leaving anything to chance.

* * *

True to your word, you stop speaking almost entirely when you're in the car together, limiting yourself to the stuff that's both job-related and absolutely necessary. Anyway, it's not like Watanuki would answer you otherwise. Your only comfort is how the bruise on his jaw has started to fade. You'll be damned if you let that shit happen again on your watch.

This week's gig is a drug deal down on Oakley, in one of the many blown-out old buildings that are so filthy that even the homeless don't stay there. As you leave the house, you receive a tip-off from one of Yuuko's kids, a little squirt who's apparently been hovering around outside all day waiting for you to come out. "Pigs on high alert today," he hisses, as he slips past. "Play it cool."

Thanks to the stimulating conversation in the car on the way, you have the whole trip to think deeply about that. You've never had - or rather, you've been lucky enough to avoid trouble with the fuzz this far. You wonder idly if that thought means you've jinxed it, and your luck's about to run out.

No one receives you at the door; you suppose that'd be pretty suspicious for an abandoned apartment. You stalk up the staircase behind Watanuki, looking around, hand over the bulge in your jacket. Under the stairwell, a few mangy rats are feasting on something, possibly another rat. _Lovely_, you think, and tighten your grip on your gun.

You find them on the fourth floor, at the end of a hallway, in a decrepit room with the busted door in front hanging off its hinges - a balding, slightly flabby ginger and his hired guns. Great, a bunch of assholes you've never met. Thanks, Watanuki. You know he's good at talking, but that doesn't mean he's got a lick of common sense. Trying to get a read on these guys when they're already closing the deal - well, it's too late to be reading anything, really. And it doesn't help that somehow, this whole time, you can't shake the feeling that you're being watched. Maybe it's the prickling on the back of your neck, or maybe you're just being paranoid because of what the kid told you this morning. Maybe. Maybe. You don't like to second guess yourself this much, but something just doesn't feel right.

"Where's the stuff?" the ginger says by way of greeting, when you walk in. He looks incredibly pale and sweaty, and even the few orange hairs layered meticulously over his shiny bald patch are trembling. His Adam's apple bobs in his fat throat, like a stone dropped into a pond.

"Doesn't work that way," you say, before Watanuki can respond. He, of course, shoots you a dirty look, which you ignore. "Where's the money?"

"You want to - you want to see the money? Okay. Okay," says the guy, exchanging a jittery look with his companions. "The money, right. Okay." A beat. Another beat. Nothing happens. You feel Watanuki's impatience growing; you feel a lump of something that tastes a little like fear in your own throat. The guy blinks, slowly, just once. Your eyes widen slightly, as the guy's hand moves towards his jacket, and everything slows down, for just a moment -

_Oh, shit._

"Police! Put down your weapons, put your hands in the air!"

- and then everything speeds the fuck back up. There's a bullet in the wall right behind where Watanuki's head was, a second earlier. You're in shit, in deep, deep shit. You should have brought another clip, or ten, or a hundred. (You're lucky you even made it this far; you can both thank your reflexes for that. You hear thumps outside, where they're throwing down the furniture, using it as barriers, bullet-shields. You figure you've got about ten seconds or so.) Watanuki is shaking beside you, now. You spare him a glance, and see his eyes flickering from the bullet holes in the dirty kitchen-tiled wall to you. His face is drained of color, contorted in a rictus of terror.

"I repeat - put your weapons down, and come out with your hands in the air!"

_Like hell I will_, you think, and load your first clip.

* * *

Somehow, you make it to the roof. It was a flash of genius that drove you upwards, or maybe it was the stomping of the cops coming up the stairs that did it. You have to step over the still-warm corpses of the ginger cop and his lackeys on the way out; you see Watanuki suppressing a visible shudder as he does so, but don't comment. (_You aren't needed_, you remind yourself.) You can't believe that they'd be so careless as to forget the roof as an escape, so you keep running, even if you have to half-drag, half-throw a breathless Watanuki across the short gap between this building and the next. A flash of metal in the afternoon sun from a fifth-storey window across the street confirms your suspicions, and you all but sprint across the rooftop, pleading to whoever, whatever's out there that they don't shoot out something vital. You hear the hollow-point bullets embedding themselves in the door right as it slams shut; Watanuki jumps at each one, and you know this because you've got a death-grip on his arm. You pound your way down the stairwell, out a second-floor window onto a closed dumpster in a back alley. The car, you've got to get to the car. It's chaos outside, already; people who heard the shots from before running everywhere in a wild panic. You stand out, running like you are, so purposefully across the street and dragging Watanuki behind you, but you haven't really got a choice.

"Keep your head down," you snap, starting the engine as Watanuki gets in the car with you. "Don't look up no matter what."

You shoot out of the alley like a bat out of hell, narrowly missing some cops who are running towards you with guns drawn, make a balls-to-the-wall sharp left and barrel down the street. You hear shots fired, pinging off the body of the car. One shatters the rear windshield and you drop your head even lower; you don't want to know how close that one came to blowing your brains out. A while after this you hear sirens starting up, but you've got a head start, a healthy one, you might even make it out alive -

That thought definitely jinxed it, because the next moment, you're hit. There's a frightened squeak from Watanuki; a sigh of relief, as he realizes he's still okay. Meanwhile, there's a burning in your shoulder that is rapidly spreading adrenaline and terror through your body - you've never been shot before, and you weren't really prepared for how much it really, fucking hurts. Grit your teeth and grip the steering wheel as hard as you can, but you're swiftly losing the ability to move your left arm, which soon falls limply to your side. That's okay, you only need one hand to drive. This movement attracts Watanuki's attention, though, stooped over as he is; you can't spare the attention to look at him, not now, but you hear him gasp as he realizes what's happened -

"Doumeki, you've been - your _shoulder_ -"

You never thought you'd hear him like that, saying your name with such concern in his voice. But it doesn't matter. "I told you to stay down," you snarl, again. Your jacket's wet, now, with your own blood. It doesn't matter. You showed them a lot worse.

This is your job. You drive the car. Drive until you roll pathetically to a stop in the street outside the safe-house, the one Yuuko had prepared for you. _Just in case_, she'd said. You think you might even have seen her running up to the car with some others, face white, filled with cold fury, as you pulled up. No matter. You're done. Everything goes black.


	3. Chapter 3

You wake up with sunlight on your face.

Lie there for a while, feeling dazed. Try to remember what you were doing, before waking up here, but all that comes back are fragments of memories - still tableaux, devoid of any context or meaning. Sprinting across the roof, your heart pounding violently in your throat. Blowing out the back of the fat cop's head with a single, well-placed shot. Stomping on the accelerator like your life depends on it (which it did). You've probably got enough drugs in you to knock out a horse. There's an ache in your shoulder, but not the burn of torn tissue and rent flesh. Someone must have done you the favor of digging out the shrapnel. You feel like you might have had some strange dreams while unconscious, but you're not sure. It's hard to focus on any one thing for too long when you're this sedated.

After a long time, you manage to turn your head to the side, despite your stiff neck. You're a little surprised to find yourself in a hospital room, and even more surprised to see Watanuki seated in a chair pulled up next to your bed. He's dozing, lightly; his head droops towards his chest. His eyes look puffy - or it could be a trick of the light. You can't imagine Watanuki shedding too many tears for someone like you.

Still, with your good arm, you weakly pull the sheets up closer to your chin, and let your eyes droop shut. There are worse things than having someone at your bedside when you come to.

(But the next time you wake up, he's gone, and you're not quite sure if he was ever there at all.)

* * *

You spend a couple of nerve-wracking days as an invalid, constantly wondering when the police are going to show up to finish the job, before you're finally discharged, heavily bandaged, and with a pretty extensive supply of painkillers - but all legit stuff, which is unusual for you. The first thing you do when you get out is... well, doesn't matter, because Yuuko's goons pick you up the minute you step outside the hospital, and take you straight to the boss's office.

"You're a wanted man," says Yuuko. Her mouth is drawn into a tight, unsmiling line. You're not positive, but you think she might be angry. Not at you, exactly; and not really at Watanuki, either. Maybe it's just sheer frustration, boiling over. (You're fairly familiar with _that_ particular feeling.)

"Yeah, well," you reply, with a shrug. It was that or dying, pretty much. And you don't know about Watanuki, but personally, you're not ready to go just yet.

She sighs, then, heavily, ceasing her incessant pacing around the room. The blinds are closed over the large picture-window you remember from before, keeping out the daylight. Somehow you remember her being a lot more composed than this; you're not sure that these occasional glimpses of humanity suit the ruthless Ichihara Yuuko. Then again, you don't remember the last time when Watanuki nearly took a bullet in the head.

"I've set you up in another place, on Emery. And here's something for your trouble." She pushes a perfectly non-descript briefcase across the table, towards you. Cold hard cash. One of the benefits of a life of crime. "Lie low for a while. As far as I know, you're the one they're after." You can't decide if she sounds grateful or not. Actually, you suppose it doesn't matter. If her actions - providing you with money, a place to stay - come across as grateful, then it's the same thing. Watanuki, for whatever reason, must be someone pretty damn important to her. Lucky for him, too, or else he'd be dead meat by now. "You need to rest up, get back on your feet quickly."

You pause, unsure of whether opening your mouth now would be pushing your luck. "Watanuki -"

"- will be fine," she cuts you off, as though reading your mind. "I'm taking him off the beat, at least until you're in shape again. I don't think he can do this alone."

There's a short silence, during which you neither confirm nor deny her statement. As though suddenly remembering another appointment, Yuuko begins drumming her fingernails on the desk, clearly growing impatient with your continued presence. That's probably your cue to leave. You pick up the briefcase, somewhat gingerly - you've never held so much money in your life - and turn to go. As you do, she says, abruptly,

"Since you'll be focusing on recuperating, Watanuki will drop by to sort your food."

"It's fine," you say, while being careful not to interrupt her. "He won't want to. I can handle that myse -"

"I'll talk to him," she snaps, eyes flashing menacingly, and at this you decide not to argue.

* * *

It's nearly eight when the doorbell rings. The penthouse Yuuko so generously donated to you is really swanky, and probably pretty secure, but you don't ever take chances. Even though you're so hopped up on painkillers you can barely walk straight, you bring your gun with you, and ease your back up against the wall next to the door, before calling out, warily.

"Who's there?"

"Open the door, moron."

Now _there's_ a voice you didn't expect to hear. You glance through the peephole, just to be sure, before letting him in. He's got his arms full with bags of groceries, so you hold the door open for him.

"Why do you have a gun?" he demands, as he bustles past you into the kitchen. You don't answer, mindfully re-locking the door before following. He's already browsing through the mostly-empty pantry, and pulling bowls and plates out. You place the gun on the counter. "Don't put that there, you idiot," he begins to say, angrily, but stops when he sees the look on your face. You reach up, and quietly close the cabinet he's opened.

"This is enough," you say, and there's something about the way you say it that's just forceful enough to give him pause. "I know she asked you to do this, but you don't have to. I'll give you money for the food, and tell her whatever you want me to tell her. You can go."

He just stares at you for a few moments, his mouth twisting sharply, with some indiscernible emotion. (You'd never admit it out loud, but to be honest, you're getting a little tired of being hated so much.) Suddenly he lashes out, apparently meaning to smack you on the arm, but remembers just in time that he really shouldn't, and restrains himself.

"Don't be so - so..." he blusters, searching for an appropriate word, "_stupid_! If I leave now, who's going to cook all this? Certainly not someone as useless as you are! You'll starve to death, and then Yuuko will be upset, though heaven knows what she sees in you. No, I'm going to stay right here until you're done eating every last crumb, and you can't stop me!"

You can hardly believe what you're hearing, although you think that if you pinch yourself he might actually hit you.

"... You want to stay?" you ask, trying not to sound too hopeful. Damn medication's making you all sentimental.

"Of course I don't _want_ to, but I don't have a choice, do I? Now go away, I don't need an oaf like you cluttering up my kitchen. Get out!" He brandishes a ladle at you, and so you comply.

The TV is still switched on, in the living room, where you left it to answer the door earlier. You seat yourself on the couch, reaching for the remote to turn the volume on the news down low, and drowsily listen to the sounds emanating from the kitchen - the gentle clinks of pots and pans, the murmurs of Watanuki talking to himself as he cooks. Griping about you, no doubt. (At least you're good for that, if nothing else, you suppose.) You nod off for a while, but haven't lost your touch - the moment you sense him nearby, your eyes flicker open. He yanks his hand back from where he was about to shake you awake like he's been burned.

"S'ready," he says, shortly, refusing to meet your eyes. You don't smile, or reach out to touch him, but instead follow him to the table without comment, where he sits glowering at you while you tuck in.

The food's the best you've had in a long, long time.

* * *

Once you get over your irrational fear of leaving the house, you start going to the local shooting range during the day, to pass the time. The first few times, just the sound of shots fired makes all the muscles in your shoulder seize up, and it's a while before you can shoot straight again. You keep doing this until your aim's as steady as it used to be, and never mind the too-vivid dreams you've been having of getting shot and bleeding out in the street, alone. Tell yourself you're not losing it, and you can almost believe it's true.

It's too easy to fall into this... _routine_, whatever it is, with Watanuki, who, despite his whining and bitching, still shows up to make you dinner every night. He even starts letting himself in before you get home; you don't know where he got a key to your place from. Yuuko, probably, since it's not actually _your_ place.

Recently Watanuki's taken to sticking around after he's done cooking. It's because he'll miss his favorite TV show if he goes home now, you see, and he really doesn't need another reason to hate you - or so he says, commandeering the remote.

You tell him, "Ever heard of TiVo?"

"I can't afford that!" he snaps. Seeing you open your mouth, he adds, "And don't even offer, I don't want your damn charity."

Well, technically, it's Yuuko's charity, but you decide not to point that out. Instead you watch him while he watches TV, and wonder if it's just the after-effects of surgery that's causing this strange tightness in your chest.

You kiss him for the first time, almost accidentally. (You don't mean to - really - it's just - ...well.) You're leaning in the doorway, quietly gazing at his back, his thin shoulders, as he stirs a pot in the kitchen. Feeling strange again - not yourself, in a way, but it's something you've become accustomed to, when you're with him. You never saw this coming, but it makes a twisted kind of sense, you and Watanuki. Or, well, just you, really. You doubt Watanuki would ever feel this way about you.

He notices you; turns and makes a face, opening his mouth to start complaining and honestly, you just do the first thing to make him shut up that pops into your head.

For a moment - just one moment - he kisses back, and then shoves you off, looking horrified. You're not sure if that expression's meant for you, or himself.

"We aren't - this isn't - _you_ -"

"Sorry," you say, although you really aren't. Maybe you'll regret this later, when he stops cooking dinner for you, but right now you don't regret a damn thing. You watch him touch fingers to his lips, almost curiously; the backs of his ears have gone red. Then he takes a step towards you, and your heart leaps.

"You better be," he grumbles, and the only thing that surprises you more than him placing his arms around your neck... is how right it feels.

* * *

"You need to learn how to use a gun."

You say this out of the blue, while you're both curled up on the couch, watching TV. There's a respectable gap between the two of you, but you have one hand resting lightly on his bare ankle, which is stretched out towards you. You continue doing this mainly because he hasn't pushed you away yet. (You'll take what you can get.) He doesn't take his eyes off the screen; his head rests in the crook of his elbow, thrown lazily over the armrest.

"My parents owned a restaurant. I don't need to know how to shoot people," he answers.

"You don't own a restaurant." Saying obvious things annoys him, which is why you do it.

"I know _that_, idiot. Doesn't mean I want to become a brute like you."

You consider this, ghosting fingertips just under the hem of his pants leg. He smacks your hand away; the backs of his ears have gone red, again.

"Nothing brutish about knowing how to defend yourself," you say, finally. The look he gives you is venomous, but he doesn't reply.

Afterwards, by the door, you lean in awkwardly to kiss him goodnight. You're still pretty stiff when it comes to movements like that, but you're nearly healthy enough to get back to work. And not soon enough; you can hardly imagine getting down on your knees to beg Yuuko for more money or time off.

"I don't know why you always have to do that," he grumbles, though he's breathing heavily, hand held self-consciously over his mouth. You blink at him.

"Do you mind?"

"Of course I mind," he snaps, looking away. "But it's not like I have a choice, right?"

He's said it before, but this time, it actually kind of hurts. Soon he realizes you're not preparing your usual blase response, and - typical Watanuki - reacts by yelling to fill the silence.

"What now, what's the matter with you?"

You don't know, really, if the answer is 'something', or 'nothing', or 'everything'. Nothing, you'll go with nothing.

"Nothing," you say, and after a few more moments of quietly looking at him, you simply close the door.


	4. Chapter 4

The next day you head to the range, fire more rounds than you ever have in a single sitting, and go back for more. When you finally get home in the evening, you find Watanuki in the kitchen again, puttering around the stove. Stand in the doorway, bewildered; but when you take a step towards him, he says, simply, without turning around - "It's not ready yet." - leaving you stranded, foot in the air, whatever you were about to say dying pointlessly in your throat. You have so much to say to him, if only you knew how to say it. It's like nothing has changed, like that night never happened - he comes over, makes you dinner, watches TV, and then stands outside your front door like he's waiting for something while you close it in his face. You start driving for him again; help him close a few deals with a gang of arms-dealing rastas. (Despite yourself you become rather fond of them; they're uncomplicated men, and surprisingly trustworthy.) Ferry him from his place to Yuuko's; to the ghettos and back again. Just how it used to be.

Things are so maddeningly normal that it makes you want to scream until your lungs bleed. He hates you but he practically lives in with you, he feeds you so he can scoff at how much you enjoy his cooking. He wants you to reach out to him so he can push you away. It's so fucked up that you just don't have the words to describe it. You want him, that much you understand; that sad, desperate core of you hasn't changed. You wonder if he's the crazy one, or you are. You can't even shoot straight anymore; all you can think about is the last time your skin made contact. Your hands are shaking as you load your gun. What the fuck is wrong with you? What are you, a girl? - The moment you have that thought is the moment you realize this has to fucking _stop._ You're getting soft from staying inside, watching TV, and eating good food every night. You have to keep it together, and to do that, you have to get away from him.

You're not the kind of guy who thinks of violence as anything other than a means to an end, but even you have your limits. Fight clubs may not really be your thing, but what's important is that they're not Watanuki's thing, either, and there isn't a chance in hell you'll run into him there. From morning to evening you do the work that Yuuko pays you for, and at night you get the crap kicked out of you in the cellar of a seedy bar downtown - but you like to think you give as good as you get. There are only two rules: no going for the balls or the eyes. Everything else is fair game. By the second day you realize there's blood seeping from your shoulder - you must've torn it open again, taking a swing at someone - but you figure anything'll heal if you ignore it for long enough. As long as you take care of your face, no one'll notice a god damn thing, and at least you can still aim a punch if not a bullet. You get used to the taste of blood in your mouth; to the crunch of bones under your knuckles. And you very carefully don't take a step back and think about how you've sunk to depths like these just to feel alive.

_Don't come over. I have something to do tonight. I won't be home._

You text him messages like this one, every night for a week, and after that you figure he's gotten the hint, so you stop. He only replies to the first of your messages - _Making someone else your culinary slave? Maybe you can get them to do it permanently!_ - which you read once, then delete, before you get the urge to smash your phone against a wall.

Three days after that, you're limping home at half past midnight. Open the door, and find that Watanuki's already waiting for you.

"You haven't come back in three days," he hisses, face white.

But you're tired - too tired to deal with his shit right now. If he'd needed you for a job, he could've contacted you at any time. Not like he needs you for anything else, right?

"Go home," you tell him, and push past him into the living room, where you collapse on the couch. Obviously not listening, he follows you in. He can be really fucking stubborn when he wants to be.

"Why are you limping?"

"I fell down some stairs," you tell him, rolling your eyes. You reach for the remote. He sits near you - too near; you're filled with the urge to draw closer, which is countered by the urge to get the hell away before you have a relapse. His eyes widen as he notices your split lip, the contusions across your knuckles.

"Have you been getting into fights?"

You ignore him, your eyes now roaming around the room, almost curiously. You feel like it's definitely done you good to get away from this sickening, quasi-domestic scene; everything feels sort of distant now, like it happened to someone else, and you only heard about it later. The TV's switched on, though the sound's muted, and there's a shirt - not yours - hung over the back of a chair at the dining table.

"You've been staying here?"

"I -" His expression says _I am trying to talk to you about something, why aren't you listening?_

"It's not like I mind, though," you continue, mildly. "This place belongs to Yuuko, after all."

"Who cares about that?" he explodes. "Why are you doing this? Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

"Maybe," you say, sounding detached. You don't know why you say that, though, because if you really, honestly wanted to die, it would have happened by now. It's not like you're squeamish about death, and you've even conveniently got your own gun, to finish the job with. It'd be child's play. "... No," you decide, eventually. "No, I'm not."

"Then why -"

"Watanuki," you say, and for once, he stops to listen to you, though his eyes are narrowed. You hold your hands up, disarmingly; even now you have to work to placate him. (You feel a crazy impulse to call him 'Kimihiro', but you don't.) "Watanuki. You don't have to be here, I swear. Go home."

"What if I _want_ to stay?"

"I don't believe you," you say, wearily. He starts, as though he hadn't expected to hear that. Well, too bad. You can't think of anything worse than sitting here, letting his misplaced concern wash over you like lukewarm water. Eventually you get to your feet, stiff movements betraying the ache in every bone, every tendon in your body. "I'm going to bed," you announce, as though he gives a shit.

"Then where will I sleep?" he snaps. When you look at him, though, even he realizes that maybe he should have kept his fucking mouth shut.

"... Fine," you tell him, flatly. (You tell yourself you're too tired, even, to deal with this, and ignore the sudden tightness of your throat. You're starting to wish you hadn't come home today, either.) "I'll take the couch. Just..." You try to shape the thing you desire into words, but as always, there's a gap between what you want to say, and what you're able to. "Just go away."

Afterwards, lying alone in the darkened living room, you wonder how the fuck you ended up like this, sleeping on your own couch because you're too chickenshit, too _whipped_ to argue about whose house this is, or who's going to get the bed, or anything, really. If you thought fighting strangers in dingy basements would fix you - well, you were fucking wrong, weren't you? You can feel your shoulder throbbing as it bleeds, and roll onto your stomach, hoping that it'll go as numb as the rest of you. But it doesn't, so at 4 in the morning you end up standing in the kitchen, trying awkwardly to dress a wound that you can't see or reach without contorting yourself into a pretzel.

You're woken in the morning by a piercing yelp. Presumably, Watanuki got a better night's sleep than you did, so he's up early.

"There's blood on the floor!"

"It's mine," you grunt, and roll over to press your face into the couch cushions. Your head's muzzy and the daylight is way too bright. Thankfully, Watanuki doesn't say anything after that; you hear him moving about in the kitchen for a while, then he leaves without a word, locking the front door behind him. When you finally drag yourself to your feet sometime in the afternoon, you find breakfast on the table, now cold. You leave it there for a while, partly due to a lack of appetite, partly because you just don't know what to do with it. If you don't eat it, it's a waste of perfectly good food; if you do eat it you're Watanuki's bitch and you should kill yourself. Rock and a hard place, in other words. You settle for taking a few half-hearted bites - even cold, it's tasty - and tossing the rest, as though that'll give you back your dignity. (It won't.)

In the evening, you're taking the train out to downtown when your phone goes off unexpectedly. Flip it open, and see this:

_Are you coming home tonight?_

No epithets, no rage, just a question. Read it over and over again, but it doesn't start making sense. Watanuki's a real god damn piece of work. You type out your reply and send it off as you exit the train, before switching off your phone. _Back late. Don't wait up._ After you've sent it, you realize maybe that should have been _don't come over_, but it's too late for that now. (And you wonder why you feel like such a failure.)

There's a new face in the crowd today, or so you glean from the snatches of conversation you hear on your way down the stairs. It doesn't matter to you; the way you feel right now, you'll take anyone on. You strip your shirt off, exposing the various scratches and bruises you've accumulated over the weeks. Across the room, tonight's punching bag bares his teeth at you in a feral snarl; you stare back, impassively. It takes a little while for you to recognize him, but when you do, anger jolts through your body - you saved Watanuki's sorry ass from being mugged by this guy a few weeks back. He's of a smaller build than you, but the hatred in his eyes is genuine, and you know he'll fight like a maniac - small, desperate guys always do. You get the feeling he'll do anything to take you down, and so you make sure to end it quickly, on your own terms. Leave him face-down on the ground, bleeding into the dirt. Wipe your knuckles off, distastefully, on the back of your jeans and prepare to leave the ring.

The only mistake you make is turning your back on him. Faster than you or anyone could have expected, he was back on his feet, and, taking advantage of the element of surprise, body-slams you into the nearest wall without warning. You crack your head against the blood-stained bricks, and for a brief moment, you see stars. He drags you along the bricks as though he's trying to scrape your face off, then in the next second he's choking you, and you never knew how much your body, your lungs needed air until this very moment. Your hands, already growing weak, pry uselessly at the fingers wrapped around your throat. What saves you is when your struggling knee connects with his kidney; he wheezes, doubles up, and loosens his grip. In a flash you knock him to the ground, and this time you don't let up until blood, flecks of spit and possibly pieces of his face are flying with every blow. Someone grabs your arm; you realize it's a bystander. No one's ever interfered with one of your fights before, so you're confused enough to stop. And now that you have, you finally realize how silent it is, everyone simply watching, watching you beat the shit out of this kid like you've got a ten-year grudge. His face looks like raw meat. You step off, trying to look calm, like you meant to do this all along, like you didn't just lose it. Grab your jacket and leave the basement behind, silent except for a low moan from your victim.

It's raining outside, which is good. It washes the blood off; makes you think a little clearer. You wonder why Watanuki has to fuck everything up, even when he's not there.

When you show up at your own doorstep, bedraggled and bloody, like a dog that's been out in the rain, you're not even surprised to find Watanuki waiting for you. It's like nothing can surprise you anymore.

"You came back," he says, quietly, and you're not sure if he sounds disappointed or relieved. At any rate, you don't bother to answer; once more you brush past, heading for the couch, where you're already resigned to spending another night. _Grow a pair_, you yell at yourself, in your head, but, well, it doesn't work that way or else you would have fixed this long ago.

You hear footsteps padding up behind you, and then something warm, dry, and fluffy flops over your head. You start, before realizing Watanuki's brought a towel over for you, and freeze. You're not sure where this is going; it can't be anything good.

But Watanuki doesn't say anything; he stands behind the couch, behind you, gently scrubbing your hair dry. You're still frozen, as though your moving might frighten him away, or shatter this moment. When he finally pulls away, you hear him suck in a sharp breath. The towel must have come away bloody. Still he's silent, behind you, the sodden towel in his hands. At length, he walks away; you hear him in the kitchen, switching on the stove, putting the kettle on. You don't dare to look around; you're not sure that your heart can take seeing the look on his face, whatever it is.

You put your head in your hands. At this rate, you're never going to have the guts to end this.


	5. Chapter 5

"What," she says, eyes dark and dangerous, "were you thinking?"

In retrospect, it seems obvious that she'd eventually hear about what you were getting up to on your off days. After all, when one had as many sources as Ichihara Yuuko, something like that was just a matter of time. You just wish you'd had the foresight to plan ahead so you didn't end up standing here in her office like a dumb mute while she stalks around in those unbelievably tall heels like she's looking for something to throttle. As for what you were thinking - well, plainly speaking, you _weren't_, but somehow you doubt telling her that would placate her.

You decide to keep your mouth shut and look penitent. There's probably nothing you can say to get out of this hole you've dug for yourself, anyway.

"In case you've forgotten," she continues, in that same silky, menacing voice, "let me remind me of your duties. You are in my employ to act as a bodyguard for my charge. _Not _to amuse yourself in bar basements having slap-fights with other man-children. If you ever feel the urge to have the shit kicked out of you, just drop my line, my men can easily take care of that. In fact, they'll be happy to, if you ever pull something like this again." She pauses; you are staring at the floor. You don't think you've ever noticed how very shiny everything in her office is. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," you say, and try not to flinch when she brushes past you on her way out, her mouth set in a thin, furious line.

* * *

It's quiet in the car on the way home, except for the sound of rain plunking off the windshield. Thankfully, Watanuki wasn't invited to witness you get royally chewed out by Yuuko. But then again, that's how you know she wasn't fucking around any more. One more misstep and you're probably going to find yourself at the bottom of a lake. You're not going to push your luck, so it's boring evenings at home from now on, for you. The anticipation is killing you, really.

Watanuki is looking sullen again, but at least he's not crammed up against the passenger's side door like someone dragged him around on shag carpet and then stuck him to a balloon. Normal-sullen, like he's just upset that he wasn't asked to sit in on the lecture you just received. Probably imagining Yuuko and you getting on all buddy-buddy without him. In reality the likelihood of that happening is a little less than zero, now, unless it involves a baseball bat or a branding iron. Which is kinda kinky, but it seems prudent to stop that thought in its tracks, because you still haven't figured out if Yuuko can read minds or not.

"What'd she say to you?" he says, obviously trying to sound casual, as you slip quickly into the driver's seat, shutting the door to the poor weather outside. Rain drips into your eyes, and you slick it out with the back of your hand impatiently.

"Not much," you tell him, starting up the car. He makes a skeptical noise in his throat, but otherwise says nothing. A pause, and then you add, nonchalantly, "Told me she'd cut my balls off if I kept going to fight clubs."

Watanuki harrumphs again, but otherwise doesn't comment, staring morosely out the window. You're kinda surprised, but then again Watanuki's been full of surprises recently. Actually wanting to accompany you today is just one more incident to add to a long list of his unusual behavior. You could almost - but no, you remember what happened the last time you got your hopes up. Anyway, as your grandfather used to say, a job's a job, and money is money. Even though she'd scared you enough that your balls had shrunk all the way into your throat, you feel like you needed that. Needed a little reminder that there were things bigger than how you felt about Watanuki, things that could dunk your feet in concrete and throw you off a bridge if you so much looked at them the wrong way. Now that you've got your head back on straight, you figure there won't be any more problems. (You make a mental note to get your shoulder looked at - it's probably bad to keep tearing a wound open like that.)

As you pull over in front of your apartment, you reach into the backseat to fumble around for an umbrella, and hand it to Watanuki. He protests halfheartedly, but by then you're already out the door, jacket drawn halfway over your head in a futile attempt to keep dry, and he has to jog to catch up.

"You're always like this," he hisses, as he tries to shield you and himself from the rain at the same time, and fails miserably, getting the both of you wet in the process.

"Like what?" you ask him, straight-facedly, and almost smile when he makes a violent, truncated motion with his arm like he wants to stab you with the umbrella.

You peel off your damp shirt, drying off in the living room while Watanuki heads into the kitchen and starts bustling about. You hear him put the kettle on, start the stove. You've noticed that he's at his happiest when he's keeping busy, despite all his whining and bitching. The TV provides some comforting background noise. You, Watanuki, and the eight o'clock news.

After a while, when whiffs of something delicious have started wafting from the kitchen, Watanuki brings out the cutlery, which you take from him. He begins to say something but you cut him off quickly; you've got to stop him before he gets started or else you'll never get a word in edgewise.

"Sorry," you tell him, seriously.

"... What?" he says, looking disconcerted. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't that.

"Sorry," you repeat, and then, when he just stares at you, you clarify, "About getting into fights. I know it upsets you."

He gawks at you for a few moments, mouth working soundlessly, and then turns and flees back into the kitchen.

After dinner, you're doing the dishes, sleeves rolled up to your elbows. Watanuki's in the living room watching his favorite show; you can hear the laugh track, then cut to commercial. You turn around to grab a dishcloth, and nearly run into Watanuki, who, for whatever reason, is standing directly behind you. He backs away quickly, and you brace yourself for all the inevitable yelling, but it never comes.

"Listen. Um," he says, fidgeting. You've never seen him like this before, and it frightens you a little. Maybe he's coming down with a fever. "Do you have some time? After this?"

You raise an eyebrow. Of all people to be asking you that question, right? You can see through the window on the far wall that it's still pouring outside, and pitch-black to boot. Hold back a sigh; well, it's not as if Watanuki would ask you to run an errand in good weather.

"Sure," you say, trying not to sound reluctant. "What do you need?"

"No, it's not - I mean. I just -" He takes a moment to compose himself, before continuing - his next sentence comes out in a rush of air, in a tiny little voice: "I rented some movies and since I was going to watch them anyway I was wondering if you'd like to come too." He is determinedly looking anywhere but at you, knotting his hands together in agitation.

You parse that with some confusion, and then parse it again. He can't _really _be asking to spend time with you. You look at him again, seeking confirmation, and notice the backs of his ears have gone all pink.

"What's that? I'm not sure I heard you right," you tell him, straight-facedly, and nimbly dodge when he swats at you in irritation, nearly laughing out loud. You think you could get used to this, sitting very still on the couch while Watanuki draws close to you tentatively, as though he'll startle like a bird into flight if you so much as stir. And again, as you carefully check that he is really is asleep, sound asleep with his head tucked into your shoulder, before tugging off his glasses, setting them on the end-table, then wrapping an arm around him the way he never lets you when he's awake.

When you finally doze off, it's to the sound of his quiet breathing, and the rainfall outside, and the flickering of the TV as the film credits roll down, before the screen goes black.

* * *

You're woken by a combination of sunlight and an insistent buzzing. Must be your cellphone. You try to peel your eyelids open, gummed together by sleep as they are, and only partially succeed. Only then do you answer, hoping you don't sound as tired as you feel.

"Wata -" The voice on the other end begins, and then stops short. It's Yuuko. She's silent for a few moments, and then she says, with a sort of forced calm, "Is Watanuki with you?"

You're instantly awake as though someone's jabbed you with a pin, the haze of sleep falling swiftly away from you. Something's wrong. Watanuki is still lying next to you on the couch, fast asleep and dreaming. Carefully you sit up, and switch the phone to your other ear, trying to keep your voice down without her noticing. "He's with me. What happened?"

Yuuko raps something out in perfect Russian; judging from the racket in the background, she seems to be holding several conversations at once. There's a short silence, as though she's trying to decide how much to tell you. When she finally speaks, it's to tell you something that knocks all the air out of you, that narrows your world down to a small cold point centered on Watanuki alone.

"They targeted his flat. All rubble now, they took it to the ground. I'm tracing the source of the leak, but I won't get answers right away. Whatever you do, don't let him out of your sight." She pauses, and then says, her voice unusually quiet, "You know what to do."

You do. You're bursting with questions, like who 'they' are, for one, and how they knew, and why him, why Watanuki? But you figure if she wanted you to know more, she'd have told you already, so instead you say, crisply, "Got it," and hang up just after she does.

"'samatter?" says Watanuki, groggily, one arm thrown over his face. You feel a sudden, brief tenderness, and almost smile, but it passes quickly. You have to focus. You pick his glasses up off the end-table and hand them to him; he takes them, mumbling something that might have been 'thanks'.

"Get up," you say, shortly. Your tone brooks no argument. Watanuki shakes himself awake slower than you did, but he manages it well enough.

"Doumeki?" he asks, sounding bemused, as he scrubs blearily at his face. You grunt in response, already on your feet, loading your gun. Your mind is racing. Yuuko gave you this place. In all likelihood, it's no longer safe. You know she has other places, around the city, but you don't know how deep this rabbit hole goes, whether you're just standing on shaky ground or whether it's already crumbled away. But you're not about to take any risks. You throw him his jacket - which he fumbles, cursing indistinctly - and say, calmly,

"We're going for a walk."


End file.
